


Only That Would Be Death

by KLStarre



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Butch/Femme, Death Pact, F/F, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Gender Issues, Genderswap, Lesbian Gomez Addams, Lesbian Morticia Addams, Love at First Sight, Marriage Proposal, Married Couple, Married Life, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLStarre/pseuds/KLStarre
Summary: It is cliche to fall in love at a funeral.(Updates on Sundays)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Butch/fem Gomez and Morticia is like...the most obvious thing in the world to me, so that's what I'm going for. Gomez's relationship with gender will be further explored in later chapters, but feedback is always appreciated.

Your first thought, when you see her, is that it is cliche to fall in love at a funeral. You think this before you know her name, before you process how beautiful she is, before you decide that you must have her. Before, even, you realize that she probably sees you as a man, because of the way you dress and the thin mustache you have painstakingly drawn over your upper lip (this, you don’t process until hours later, when you finally get up the courage to speak to her). 

The night is dark, the stars are obscured by clouds which threaten rain, and the moon is a perfect crescent, throwing a nauseating shade of yellow across the assembled guests. Across all of them, that is, except for her. Her skin is paler even than the corpse’s, a rectangle of light hovering over her eyes, drawing your attention to them.

As if your attention could ever be anywhere else. They are so dark no comparison can be drawn, and you think, maybe, she might be looking at you, but you can’t be sure. You have been wrong so many times before that you fear to make assumptions. 

“Gomez,” your brother hisses from beside you. “Pay attention!”

With a start, you tear your gaze from her, reminded that you are at a funeral. The procession has begun, up the aisle, and you are close enough that, as it passes, you can look up and into the open casket. Cousin Balthazar’s face is destroyed, part of the axe that killed him still lodged in his head, and you forget about the mysterious woman long enough to suppress a satisfied smile. You hadn’t actually been the murderer, of course - killing family is such bad form - but you are still a suspect, and it is flattering to be seen as being capable of accomplishing the deed.

As the casket passes by each row of the Addams clan, they stand, a ripple rolling inwards towards the grave. Death is a thing to be honored, not mourned, and so there are no tears, only straight backs and respectful nods as the procession finally reaches the hole in the ground where the casket will spend all eternity. It is lowered in, slowly, slowly, the notes of someone’s harpsichord ringing in the background, and then, with a muffled thump, it is over. 

Everyone stands, frozen, for a couple of moments more, and then the harpsichord falls silent. It is Addams custom to fill in the grave one handful of dirt at a time, and so you make your way forward, waiting as all those in front of you take their turns. 

When you finally reach the front of the queue, she is there, on the other side of the grave, with a wraithlike hand full of dirt. You can’t help but stare at her as she tosses it in, dress tight and beautifully black, barely even looking at the body. You almost trip as you bend down to grab your own handful, and you think you hear her laugh (or maybe that’s just wishful thinking), but when you straighten up, she is gone. You throw the dirt into the grave with perhaps more viciousness than Cousin Balthazar deserves. 

\---

It is later, at the afterparty, when the waltz is playing, that you spot her again. She is standing against a wall, and there are hundreds of people between you, but your vision narrows until all you can see is her, and she looks unimpressed. Perhaps a waltz is not her style. Or perhaps she has come alone, perhaps she is somehow single, and that thought sends a jolt down your spine which you still don’t quite understand. You turn to your right, where your brother, Fester, normally stands, to ask if he knows her, but he is gone, likely off dancing somewhere with Flora and Fauna. 

Before you can stop to think twice, about how rude it is to cut across a dance floor, or about how she may not even want to talk to you, you are striding forward, dress shoes creaking against the wooden floors. You barely even notice the people dodging out of your way, the music faltering as the musicians pause in confusion and then speeding up again as they shrug it off. You come to a stop in front of her, in front of this beautiful stranger, and you think maybe you see a smile lurking around the corner of her mouth. She is a hundred, a thousand, a  _ million  _ times more stunning up close, and you are grateful for the excuse to look away and compose yourself as you bow before her, sweeping your hat off your head.

“Gomez Addams, at your service,” you say, and when you look up, she is definitely smiling. 

“An honor,” she says, and you are so overwhelmed by her voice, a voice which rustles through mildew and decay, that you don’t even notice that she hasn’t responded with an introduction of her own. 

The waltz is still playing, couples twirling and dipping and circling, and before you can lose your confidence, you take her hand and kiss it, lightly. “May I have this dance?” you ask, and she inclines her head. 

She is hard to read, her mouth turning up only slightly at the corners, but she does not pull her hand away, allowing you to pull her closer and place your right hand on her waist. She is so deathly cold she barely feels alive, and when she rests her hand on your shoulder, your bodies fit like they were made for each other. You meet her eyes, and you can tell that she’s noticed it too, as you take your first step in perfect synchronicity. 

“I don’t often dance with men,” she says, speaking quietly, so that you are forced to lean in closer to understand her. “Actually, I don’t believe I ever have.”

She must feel you tense beneath her touch, must feel you miss a step in the waltz for the first time since you were five, but she says nothing, looking at you steadily. You could drown in her eyes, and it would be an honor.

“I’m not a man,” you say, and she smiles for real, showing teeth that are perfectly white and maybe just a little bit sharper than the average. Her grip tightens on you, just enough for it to be intentional, and she is closer, now, somehow, without you noticing how she has done it.

“I know,” she says, as the music shifts to a gavotte and the two of you transition seamlessly into it. “I just wanted to hear you say it.” 

If she had been anyone else, you would have pulled away, ended the conversation, no matter how rude it would be to cut out of a dance. But all she is doing is being honest, and you can feel yourself falling even as you dip her. “How did you know I would?” you ask, as you twirl her and pull her close. Far closer, in fact, than propriety would dictate.

“I didn’t,” she says, and you can’t take your eyes away from her lips as her nails dig into your shoulders. “I just hoped.”

Her voice lifts up as she says ‘hope’, and your heartbeat increases in time with the music as the last dance of the night begins. A tango. This will be the true test, you tell yourself. Right now, you are infatuated, inhaling her grave dust perfume like it is the only air you’ve ever breathed. If she can match you in a tango, then you will be in love, and there will be nothing you can do about it. 

It is hard, right now, to come up with a reason why you would want to. 

You take the first step, and she mirrors you, your bodies pressed together, your faces less than an inch apart. You can feel every inch of her against you as the tempo increases, increases again, can feel her legs as they take each step in perfect time with yours, can feel her heart beating, her chest moving up and down as she breathes steadily. 

There is nothing else in the world right now except for her and you, your eyes level with each other, mouths moving closer and closer before being forced apart by whatever the music requires. 

A tango is a dance of passion, but it takes practice, takes precision, takes knowledge of your partner. It is impossible to dance like this with someone you have just met, and yet you are doing it, turning and dipping and coming apart and then together, apart and together, like a guillotine and a chopping block. You are not quite sure, yet, which of you is which. 

The tempo increases again, and you are sure you are going to miss a step, distracted as you are (and yet, are you distracted? It seems you have never been more focused in your life), but she tightens her grip at just the right time, supporting you, and then releases when you find the step again, twirling her around yourself flawlessly. For the time you realize that, although you are the one leading, she is in control. She has not missed a step yet, has not been even a breath offbeat, and there isn’t a drop of sweat on her perfect face. 

You think, quite casually as you look away from each other as the dance demands, that you would die for her.

The tempo increases one last time, and you move in and out and across, bodies reacting like they have known each other for years, for decades, for eons, and you spin her one last time, catching her in a dip so deep her hair brushes the floor, and then stand her up as the song crescendos to completion, falling to your knees.

“I do not have a ring to give,” you say, barely even registering what it is that you are doing. “But if I have to live another day without you, I will not make it through the week. Marry me, cara mia.” The Italian slips out without hesitation, an endearment that you hope will not offend her. 

“You don’t even know my name,” she says, smiling once again. She is teasing, not rejecting, and you take her hand between yours once more as you look up in supplication. 

“Then tell it to me, that I may worship it.” This is too much, probably, but you have never been one for half measures.

She pulls you to your feet, so that your eyes are once again level. “I am Morticia, and I do not want to be worshiped. I look forward to knowing you, mon cher.”

She walks away as the French runs through you, robbing you of the opportunity to press your lips against her arm, her shoulder, her neck, her perfect lips. 

_ Morticia _ . It is cliche to fall in love at a funeral.

It is cliche to fall in love at a funeral, and you are truly, deeply, madly, desperately, in love.


	2. Letter 1

_ Dearest Gomez, _

_ We have only just met, and already I feel the urge to call you ‘dearest’. I fear I seemed disinterested, at the funeral last night, but I promise you that it was only out of a fear of frightening you away. From the moment I lay eyes on you, I was entranced, and from the first note of our tango, I knew you were the only one I would ever love. Ophelia thinks I am foolish for falling so quickly, but she wasn’t there, she didn’t feel it.  _

_ I do not know if I will send this letter. How embarrassing, if I sent it, only to discover that I did not mean as much to you as you to me. And yet, somehow, I don’t think that is so. I could feel it in you, when I saw you for what you were. We all have our secrets, the parts of ourselves we wish to hide, and I hope that someday you will be able to accept yours.  _

_ I hope you visit tomorrow. I hope you visit tonight, but that would be too much to ask, considering you do not even yet know my last name.  _

_ I have decided, in the writing of this, that I will not send this letter, but I shall keep it. I shall keep it, and if something befalls me, I shall leave it to you, along with all of my other writings, so that you might remember where we began. _

_ I do so hope this is truly a beginning. _

_ Avec amour, _

_ Morticia _

 


	3. Chapter 2

The next night, at precisely 7:32 PM (according to your pocketwatch, which reads 6:15, and your wristwatch, which reads 8:21), you stand outside the wrought iron door to the Frump mansion, hands shaking. Your right hand is clenched around the love letter that you had spent the past twenty-four hours writing, burning page after failed page until you were left with a single piece of paper, covered in your most pristine script. You hope it will be enough.

If Morticia refuses you, you will kill yourself. Fester had laughed at you when you told him this on the way home from the funeral, the night previous, but when your face hadn’t moved a muscle, his laughter had faded, and he had given you her address. Sometimes it is useful, having an older brother as suave and sophisticated and worldly as he.

It’s been five minutes since Lurch had dropped you off and left with the carriage, and you are no closer to knocking than you were when you woke up this morning. What if she’s not there? What if she didn’t actually want you to show up, and, somehow, you’ve already ruined everything? What if the flowery phrases and professions of undying devotion in your letter are too much? She had, after all, said she didn’t want to be worshiped.

You close your eyes and raise your fist to knock. The sound echoes, the iron of the door pleasantly painful against your knuckles, and your eyes spring open, desperate for any glimpse of her. Your heart thuds one, two, three agonizing beats as you wait for the door to open, and you jump as it swings outward, a creak echoing from its hinges. Standing in front of you is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever…

Wait, no. That’s not Morticia. There’s a passing resemblance, to be sure, but she is dressed in a white sundress, and there are daisies woven so tightly into her hair that it almost looks as if they are growing there. Or - wait a minute, are those  _ roots? _

Before you can get a word out, a smile spreads across her face. “Oh, you must be Gomez Addams!” You suppose you must be. You open your mouth to speak, but she extends her hand, nails painted a delicate pink, clearly expecting you to kiss it. There is no polite way to avoid doing so, and so you bend over it, brush your lips lightly against her knuckles, and then pull away.

“Yes, I am. I believe you have the advantage of me?” All you want to do is ask for Morticia, but there are things that must be said, pleasantries that must be exchanged. And if she is in the house, and has heard your voice, but has not yet come down to greet you, then you are almost afraid to ask after her at all.

Only almost, because an Addams is never afraid. 

“Oh, of course! I’m Ophelia Frump. Morticia’s older sister, she’s told me  _ so  _ much about you -”

“Is she in?” you ask, even as your heart skips a beat and does three backflips and a cartwheel. 

“Oh!” Ophelia pauses for a moment, tapping her forefinger against her lips as she thinks. “Yes, I think so. She’s been up in her room all day, doing God only knows what. Come in, come in! I’ll go find her.”

Ophelia runs off, just as you feel a raindrop splash against the top of your head. It is unfortunate that you have been invited in; you’d much rather stand outside and enjoy the thunderstorm that’s been brewing all day. But there is no sacrifice you will not make for Morticia.

You step inside, into a dark hallway lit by real, genuine torches, and hear the door close behind you, creaking its way into a tremendous crashing noise.  _ This  _ is where Morticia lives? If she has all this, what could you possibly have to offer her?

Swallowing your worries, you walk forward, down the hall, following the shadows of the guttering flames. Eventually, the hallway opens, into a large, open area, framed on either side by spiral staircases. They are Gothic in architecture, you think, and you are so impressed it takes you a moment to look all the way up to the top and see Morticia, standing on the platform between the two of them, looking down at you. She is clothed in black, of course; in your brief time knowing her, you have gotten the distinct impression that she never wears anything else. Her dress is tight, only slightly less formal than the one she had worn to the funeral, and her lips are a red that stand out against the pallor of her skin like blood.

If you had been in any doubt as to how deeply infatuated you are, that doubt would have been banished immediately. The confidence in the way she holds herself, the glint in her eye that makes it seem as if she knows more than you do, the sense that she thoroughly enjoys being alive, but also would have no objection to a violent death. She is everything you have never dared imagine another woman could be, and, as she looks down at you, she smiles. “You came,” she says, and it sounds like she had been afraid you wouldn’t. 

The breath is knocked out of you, and you wonder to yourself how it is that she can grow more beautiful, more alluring, with every passing second. You are able to retain just enough of your wits to sweep your top hat off of your head, to bow, to replace the hat and remove your cigar from between your lips. You place it in one of your many pockets, for later. “How could I stay away?” you ask, and mean it. 

Her smile grows, and you mirror it. You would do  _ anything  _ for that smile, you know suddenly, with a devastating certainty. She is walking, now, down the stairs, closer to you, and you want to rip the dress off of her, so that it will stop obstructing her movements and she can get to you more quickly. 

Well. That’s one of the reasons you want to rip the dress off of her. As she gets closer, you get a better look into her eyes, and you would willingly bet the entire Addams fortune that she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

She takes the last step, and, unconsciously, you move towards her. You have spent most of your life doing everything you can to have complete control, and in a  _ day _ this woman (Morticia Morticia Morticia) has you completely in your grasp. And, you consider as she mirrors you, you are okay with it. 

“Mr. Addams,” she says, and are you overanalyzing, or is she standing closer to you than politeness would allow? “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She is taller than you, by an inch or two, and normally that would drive you crazy, but you find yourself enjoying looking up at her.

“Gomez, please,” you say, and she nods. Probably, she had expected that. “Ms. Frump, would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a walk?” 

Her mouth quirks up, not a full smile, but enough to make your heart skip a beat. “Morticia, please. And the honor is all mine. If I’m not mistaken, though, it is raining. Won’t it ruin your wonderful suit?” 

“Walks in the rain are the best kind,” you say, momentarily worried that you had misjudged her. “And I have nine suits exactly like this one.” It is then that you realize that you have been holding your letter for her by your side for the entirety of this brief conversation.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she says, and you nod as you extend the paper to her. “For me?” she asks rhetorically, taking it, still folded, and disappearing it somewhere. It seems impossible that she could have pockets, but it appears that she must. 

“Shall we?” you ask, and she curtsies slightly, a joke but not a joke. She leads you to the door, slipping seamlessly into the role of hostess, and you follow until you reach it, when you step around and hold it open for her. She tilts her head toward you, slightly, approvingly, and you feel a chill rush through you. You have held the door for every girl you have ever been with (not that there have been many. You are obsessive, not nearly as flighty as you might seem to an outside glance), but she is special. How many times can you think that to yourself before it stops being a surprise?

You offer your arm to her as the door closes behind you both, and she takes it, her hand folding gently over yours. It is like you are two Victorian-era lovers, going out in public for the first time, except you are certain that no Victorian-era lovers ever felt something like this. She is cold as ice, and your blood is aflame, like it always is, and you fit together perfectly. All you want to do is pull her into an embrace, to tango, to merge into one, but you resist the urge. Together, you walk through the rusted gate and onto the dirt path which you had previously ignored, so single-minded were you in your quest to find her. 

It is raining, and the two of you walk in silence for a minute or two, enjoying the rumbles of thunder and the flashes of lightning and the cascade of rain that feels as sharp as you imagine her nails to be. Morticia’s dress clings to the contours of her body (like you wish you could), and her hair is soaked through, framing her face. Her eyes are alight with joy - or misery, as the case may be.

You don’t realize you are staring until she meets your gaze, and blinks slowly. “You are exquisite,” you say, meaning it.

“I know.” By now, you have come to a copse of trees, each one scraggly and grey, a creek eddying between them. Morticia takes a pause and looks up, lips slightly parted. The rain drips down her face, like she is some sort of old water goddess and, as far as you’re concerned, she might as well be. “Is that all you have to say?”

This is interesting. You are nervous, yes, and you want to say the right thing, but now this conversation feels like a duel, and you know very well how to duel. You had, in fact, considered bringing your lucky rapier along on this expedition, but Fester had talked you out of it. He had been afraid it might come across as too eager, and he had probably been right. Good old Fester. 

“That is only the beginning. I have four languages with which to describe you, Morticia, and I lack only the knowledge of where to begin.”

“Begin at the beginning,” she says, and she has turned to face you, now, close enough to touch. You feel as if the only part of you that truly exists is the arm which she still holds. 

“I have not stopped thinking of you since I first saw you at the funeral. I barely even looked at the corpse, and, when I went home, I carved your initials into my leg with the knife I was given for my twenty-first birthday.”

She smiles at that, leans forward a hair’s breadth. “Go on.”

“You are confident, and dangerous, and we tangoed like there was no one else in the world to tango with, and you said you did not want to be worshiped, but it is taking every ounce of my self-control not to fall to my knees this very instant. In fact, I might anyway.” With that, you do, releasing her arm with a pang of regret, and ruining some excellently tailored pants in the process. You look up at her, through the rain, with more honesty than you have given anyone in a long time. “Last night, Morticia, I proposed with no ring, and I thought it the madness of first infatuation. Now, I propose again, and still I have no ring, but I  _ know _ it to be the madness of deepest love.”

She cups her hand against the side of your face, trailing her nails down your left cheek, and you lean into her touch, eyes half-lidded. “Stand up.” It is a request and not a command, and you willingly acquiesce, taking her hand between yours and pressing your lips against it. You have kissed women before, of course, and women have kissed you, but none of them have been half as entrancing as Morticia’s singular hand. 

She takes her hand away, and you look up, once again afraid that you have failed some sort of test. But before you can say anything, she is stepping closer, pressing her body against yours, placing her hands gently on either side of your neck. For a moment, a brief eddy in the storm’s current, you lock eyes, and then the moment is over and she is pulling you in to kiss you. 

Instinctively, your right hand goes to her waist, your left cupping the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, even though you are already nearly as close as two people can get. You can taste her lipstick, but more than that, you can taste  _ her _ , your breaths melding together as her nails dig into the skin on the sides of your throat. Her hands move up, up to comb through your hair, and you bite her lip and she bites back, harder, drawing blood if you’re lucky. 

“ _ Tish _ ,” you whisper, into her mouth, barely able to control yourself, completely unable to form her full name, light years away from caring. 

She pulls back, one perfect eyebrow perfectly arched, her lipstick, you are proud to notice, smudged. “Oui, mon sauvage?” she responds, and all notion of control flees from you as lightning flashes with a tremendous crash and you bury your face in her neck, both hands, now, wrapped around her waist. 

You want to leave marks, to match what her nails have done to your throat. To leave a reminder that whatever is happening is really happening. And so you bite, the power of her French coursing through your veins, and she softens in your arms, strokes your back gently, gently. It is an approval, but it is also a message: a message of what she could do to you in turn, given a chance. 

There are twin pinpricks of blood, now, standing out against skin so pale it might as well be snow, but they are washed away as you return to her lips, dipping her without a thought as lightning strikes again. It illuminates her in a sort of inverse silhouette, for just long enough for you to notice that, at some point in your dance, her hobble skirt has ripped, leaving her legs exposed.

“Don’t stop,” she says, a command, this time, and you are all too happy to obey.

  
  
  



	4. Letter 2

_ Morticia, my only, _

_ I have been up half the night and all of the day writing to you, feverishly crossing out and rewriting and burning the failures. I would like to pretend that this comes naturally to me, that this is the first letter I have written, but that would be to lie to you, and I never wish to lie to you. This is letter number six hundred and thirty-seven, and if it is not perfect, then there will be a letter six hundred and thirty-eight. Already, I have wasted a paragraph, a paragraph which could have been spent waxing eloquent about you. _

_ You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, but you know that, I’m sure, and, besides, it was not your beauty which truly drew me to you. It was your poise, your confidence. You sat in a graveyard, knowing how we Addamses are about funerals, and you held yourself as if it would be ridiculous for anyone to even dream of looking anywhere but at you. How could a man not fall in love? _

_ Or, well, I suppose I have already told you that I’m not a man. Most of the world looks at me as if I am, with my suits and my cigars and my penciled in mustache. But I’m not, as you noticed immediately. Another reason why my heart is aflame at the thought of you; you see me as I am. Not a man, but not quite a woman, either. An Addams, before anything else. An Addams who would love you without worship, as an equal, if you would have him. An Addams who has never been afraid in his life, but is terrified, now, that you might reject him. _

_ Thank you for doing me the honor of dancing with me, and I hope, when you read this letter, it will not be long before we dance again. _

_ Con todo mi corazón, _

_ Gomez Addams _


	5. Chapter 3

The Addams graveyard is a masterpiece, a monument to centuries of the macabre. A black cage stands proudly in the middle, constructed of iron, meant to keep in Addamses so long dead that even their names are no longer remembered. There are monuments to torture, statues of the grotesque, memorials of the obscene, gravestone upon gravestone upon which the words “S _ ic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc”  _ are proudly etched. It is beautiful. 

Not nearly as beautiful, however, as the woman who sits beside you. The bench is stone, its legs wrapped with poison ivy, and it is not quite wide enough for two, forcing Morticia and yourself to sit pressed against each other. Neither one of you is complaining.

She has, since the night of the storm, taken to wearing looser dresses. Of course, it has only been two days since then, so perhaps the pattern you have noticed is a coincidence. If it is, it is a convenient one. The two of you have spent hours upon hours together, nights bleeding into dawns, and, suffice it to say, very little of that time has been spent in conversation. 

Tonight, though, you have decided to control yourself. To ignore the fact that every move she makes drives you wild. To truly learn about her, before you propose again, this time with a ring.

“Who are you?” you ask, ignoring the temptation of her exposed throat. She laughs a small, startled laugh, and you close your eyes in order to hear it more clearly. 

“Why, I’m Morticia Frump. And here I was thinking we had passed the stage of introductions.”

You take her hand, the motion natural, now, and lace your fingers through hers. “No, who  _ are _ you? What are your loves, your passions, your hopes, your dreams, your fears? Are you the woman I think you are, or someone else entirely? I have been in love with you three days and nearly four nights, and yet you remain a mystery.”

Perhaps this is why most courtships take so long. The dance (for everything is a dance) of learning about each other, of building trust. 

“A question for a question?” she asks, voice teasing, and you tense. Of course the learning must be mutual, like everything else about your...dare you call it a relationship? Of course it must. It is simply that you have accustomed yourself to lying, and you have promised to only ever tell her the truth. 

“Of course, cara mia,” you respond, nonetheless. “After you.” It is only polite, after all. 

“Why the moustache?” She takes her hand from yours and traces it, gently. It is a simple question, but you know what she means. The moustache is just the simplest way to ask it. She understands why, you think, but she wants to hear it from you. 

“I’ve always admired them. Great-great-aunt Mordred had one, and the first time I saw a portrait of her, I was jealous. They told me I couldn’t grow one, and I was disappointed for years. Eventually, once I grew old enough for formalwear, I started wearing the suits.” The jacket you have on tonight is a glorious bloodred, your tie striped burgundy and violet. “It came to a point where everyone mistook me for a man, and so I convinced myself I was one. It was a wonderful excuse to start drawing in the moustache, and the family is good about that sort of thing. Honoring our ancestors, you know. I eventually realized I wasn’t a man, when I first fell in love, but I never had a problem with people seeing me as one - preferred it to being seen as a woman, in fact - and so I kept the moustache. There are ways to get a real one, now, but I like drawing it in. And I like being ‘he’, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” She hasn’t even blinked at the sudden loss of your usual eloquence.

“From everyone except you.”

“What do you prefer from me, mon cher?” she asks, so genuine that the French drops out accidentally, and you have to exert every shred of willpower you have to keep yourself from pulling her down on top of you. 

“Anything,” you say, automatically, and then, wonderingly, again. “Anything. You see me as I am.”

Morticia retakes your hand, and squeezes, tight enough to cause pain. Gods above, you love this woman. “Your question, darling.”

Once again, you get the distinct impression that you’re fencing. Back and forth, evenly matched, steel against steel. Although, evenly matched may be an inaccurate description. She, as always, has the advantage of you.

“What are you afraid of?” you ask, after a moment of consideration. It is a deeply vulnerable question. Generation upon generation of Addamses have lived their lives refusing to bow to fear, and it is a lot to ask, that she openly reveal hers. Of course, she is not yet an Addams. 

For a while, there is no sound but the loud silence of the night. From within the house, the vulture cries. The wind creaks through the dying trees, and the alligators splash, and the worms consume the flesh of the dead in an infinite, quiet rustle. You are just beginning to worry that she will not answer you, when she speaks, voice nearly as soft as the worms. 

“I suppose I am afraid of lies. I am afraid of the lies of happiness and sunshine which are told to hide a darker truth, and I am afraid of the lies we tell ourselves about our natures, and I am afraid of a life spent in blind conformity without care or regard for what comes next or for what is wrong with the world. What does that tell you, Mr. Addams? Am I the woman you think I am?”

She calls you ‘Mr. Addams’ playfully, but none of the rest of her words match her tone. This is another test, you think, although you are not sure of what, and you are not sure quite how to pass it. You decide on honesty. “Yes,” you say. “And no.”

“Oh? And why is that?” 

You are looking out into the cemetery, and not at her, but you can feel her cock her head and lean into you. “When I first saw you, I thought you were perfect, and I loved you for it. Now, cara mia, I know you fear and lust and hope like any human, and I love you all the more with every passing second.” Then, and only then, do you look at her. You have professed your love a thousand times since your first dance, and meant it every one of them. But this. This feels different. It is dark and quiet and vulnerable, and you are not swept up in the throes of passion, but rather thinking clearly, for the first time since you’ve met. 

Morticia understands that, you think. She reaches out with the hand not intertwined with yours, and cups your face, gently, caressingly, keeping her nails from piercing your skin. You relax into her touch, eyes closing almost against your will, and, together, you share the silence. 

The world spins and thousands of people die and the worms tear their bodies apart and you sit in a graveyard with the woman you love and you are at peace. 

“I want to meet your parents.” 

If she is surprised by this statement, she doesn’t show it. “You’re not going to propose again, first?” 

“Not yet. Three is an important number, and I want to meet your parents. And your African stranglers, and your lion, and your sister, and everyone else who is important to you. We Addamses take family very seriously.” 

“I understand.” This has just now become real to you, whereas before, the whole thing had felt like some glorious nightmare. It is the same for her, you think. “Tomorrow, we’ll have a banquet. Will you bring your family?” 

“My parents are dead. We passed their monument earlier.” A strange kind of glee fills you as you say this. Your parents died together and were buried together and were immortalized together, and now you are picturing doing the same with Morticia, and it is the most beautiful thing you could possibly imagine. You don’t say this, though. Death pacts are traditionally reserved for the wedding night. “I will bring my brother.”

Morticia grants you a smile, and you sit up and pull away from her hand just so you can get a better look at her. “You didn’t tell me your parents were dead.”

“You didn’t ask.” You lift the hand that you are still holding to your lips, and press them gently against the back of it. Somehow, it feels more intimate than anything else you have done thus far. 

\---

The sun is rising by the time you return to the Addams mansion, having walked Morticia home, and seen her through the door. In the past, you have become infatuated with many women, throwing everything aside to pursue them, to woo them, even if they had laid claim to another. And, in the past, you had always succeeded. Succeeded, and then grown bored, and eventually given up and set them up with other eligible young men or women, only to watch them move on and get miserably married, leaving you still alone and searching. 

You can tell, already, that you could live a thousand lifetimes and die a thousand deaths, and you would never grow bored of Morticia.

“Fester!” you yell as the door swings open ahead of you, and Lurch steps out from the shadows to take your hat. You reach into your breast pocket and pull out a cigar, which lights as soon as it is exposed to the air. The last cigar you had was over twelve hours ago, and that’s the longest you’ve gone without smoking since you were twelve. You imagine Fester would have something to say about that, if he would bother to listen. “Fester!”

“Up...stairs…” Lurch groans, and you nod and toss a ‘thank you’ over your shoulder as you stride purposefully to the stairs. Upstairs means he’s in the attic, probably, having spent half the night working on some ingenious new way of blowing things up. Sure enough, as you pass the landing for the third floor, there is a resounding boom, and a chunk of plaster falls directly beside you. You take the cigar from your mouth as you peer up, wondering if the hole he’s blown is large enough for you to see through to the attic, and then shrug and continue walking when you realize you can’t see through the dust.

He can be a bit single-minded, your brother. It runs in the family. 

When you finally reach the attic, onto your second cigar, the door has been knocked off its hinges and is leaning against the wall. Fester is wearing his goggles and appears to have earplugs in, and is bent over his work table, poking at a bundle of dynamite with a sparkler. “Fester!” you yell, for the third time since entering the house, and he jumps, dropping the sparkler and turning around to face you.

“What’s wrong? Who is it? I’ll shoot him in the back!” His earplugs are still in, so his threat is made much more loudly than strictly necessary. You move past him and pick up the sparkler, using it to light a third cigar, before you answer him.

“Nothing’s wrong, old man. Just got back home from escorting Morticia to her abode.”

“Bah, that girl. Nothing’s going to come of it, Gomez, you’ll get bored like you always do.” He reaches to take the sparkler back, but you move it away, almost without thinking.

“She’s different.”

“Sure she is. Give me back my sparkler, I’m trying to see if I can blow the whole attic off the house, with me in it.”

“Lurch’ll have a fit, Fester, you know how he is about the dust.” And then, after a pause, during which you realize you’ve let him distract you, “And she is. I’m going to meet her parents tomorrow, and she’s going to meet my family.” 

“Your family? Our parents are dead. Aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are, they got torn apart by that  _ vicious _ angry mob. Surely you remember?”

“Right, right.” You can tell he’s not paying much attention. He still has his earplugs in, for one thing, and he’s picked up the dynamite and started banging on the table with it, for another. He’s a genius, never willing to be distracted too long from his work.

“Fester.” You say, and then again, “Fester. She’s going to meet  _ you _ . I want you to come with me tonight, to dinner at the Frump’s mansion.”

Now, finally, he looks at you, and there is an uncomfortable silence while he twists out his earplugs and throws them down on top of the sparkler. 

“And miss out on Lurch’s cooking? Gomez, he said he was making pickled octopus tonight.”

He makes a compelling, insightful argument. Pickled octopus is a rare delicacy, and Lurch will be hurt if you both abandon it. Ah, well. It can’t be helped. “Please, brother. It’s important to me. I’m going to propose.”

“Didn’t you already do that?”

“Well, yes. Twice. But this time, I am going to do it in true Addams fashion, with a sword and a blood oath and a ring.”

Fester stares at you with his wise, beady eyes, before nodding twice. “Alright, I’ll come. I’ll wear my best robe.”

You are unable to stop yourself from grinning as you reach out to clasp your brother’s hand. He squeezes back, and you are so happy that you don’t even resist when he pulls with all his strength and flips you over. You land flat on your back with a crash, and he peers down at you. “Wow, Gomez. You really  _ are  _ head over heels for this girl.”

You continue grinning in response, eyes probably manic. “Help me up,” you say, reaching out for him, and he takes your hand. You use it to flip  _ him  _ over, and he lands behind you, your heads almost touching. The two of you lie there for a second, breathing heavily, and then you jump to your feet. “Well! No time for games! Fester, where’s Thing? I need his help finding mother’s old engagement ring, he has the whole house catalogued.”

There’s a soft knocking from the box positioned on Fester’s worktable, and a creak as the top is pushed open by a disembodied, masculine hand.

“Thing!” you exclaim, removing your cigar from your mouth (you’re not quite sure when you put it back in in the first place) to gesticulate. “Wonderful! Tonight, I’m getting engaged!”


	6. Letter 3

_ Darling Gomez, _

_ I’m beginning to regret inviting you to meet my family. You have such a lovely home, after all, with all of its bedrooms and dungeons and masterfully placed creeks, and that absolutely  _ marvelous  _ graveyard. All we have is those far too sturdy staircases, and a swamp that isn’t nearly big enough to go exploring in. And your parents are dead, which is much more dreary than my mother, who is still very much alive, and my sister, who is even more so. I love them dearly, of course, but what if, after meeting them, you are no longer interested in me? _

_ I know I’m being foolish, mon cher. You have already professed your eternal love more times than I can count, and I do not take you for a liar. Still, I am nervous. Mere hours ago, you asked me what I feared, and it took me ages to be able to vocalize it. Now, in the too-bright hours right after the dawn, it is easy. I am afraid of losing you.  _

_ Don’t leave me, Gomez. I have ignored your proposals twice, thinking myself foolish for growing infatuated so quickly, but if you propose again, I will assent without hesitation. You stir the darkest things within me, the deepest yearnings, and I do not wish to spend another day apart.  _

_ My mother has always insisted that Ophelia would be wed first, that she would not grant her blessing to any suitor of mine before the eldest had had her turn. Before, I had never minded. I had had nothing but brief dalliances, no one to hold my attention. But then you came, and swept me off my feet, and I tell you I will burn the world down if that is what it takes to get my mother’s blessing. In the face of our love, the world is no great loss, so long as we lose it together. _

_ If we are being honest (and I hope we always are), I am not certain why I insist on addressing these letters to you. I have no plans on sending them, but it feels right, somehow. Maybe, someday, you will read them. I will keep them with the very first letter you wrote me, in the hidden compartment beneath my bed of nails, and someday, when we are old and withered and rotting away, I will read them to you, if I have the breath.  _

_ We are not even yet married, and yet I picture us dying together. How could it be any other way? _

_ Toujours, _

_ Morticia _


	7. Letter 4

_ Morticia, _

_ I have written you love letter upon love letter, and meant every word of them. I mean every word of this, too, except I must keep it to myself. There are words that I do not yet have. Or words that I have but cannot place in the right order, and this is a new problem for me, as I have never, in my life, as anyone can attest, had difficulty with words. _

_ I do not even know why I am writing this. I am seeing you in a matter of hours, and then we will be engaged, and I will be able to sweep you off your feet and take you home and speak to you with my voice - or, at least, my tongue - instead of my woefully inadequate pen.  _

_ I suppose it is because I have spent the better part of the morning digging my mother’s engagement ring out from her grave, and I have thought about marriage, and I have thought about honesty, and I could not bear the thought of having been dishonest to you. _

_ Not that I lied. I told you the only version of the truth I have ever shared. _

_ But I need to...I need to write it for myself, and maybe, eventually, for you. _

_ I am not the way I am simply because I appreciate the glamour of moustaches and it is easier than the alternative. I am the way I am because it hurts to be any other way. Not a good pain, like the kind you inflict so easily - not a pain of the flesh but, rather, a pain of the mind, of the spirit. I have loved women since I knew what love was, and I have never been a man, but to be Gomez hurts less than to be what I was when I was born, and I have not yet been able to reconcile that with who I see myself as. _

_ I meant it, though, when I told you that you could call me anything. I would be your wife, if it would make you happy, I would be a mother to our children and a daughter to your parents. Not because I would do anything for you - although I would, I would crawl through glass and needles and burning sand, and I would lay the heads of your enemies at your feet - but because I think I want you to love me as a woman, to see me for what I think I still am. _

_ Eres divina. Eres divina. Eres divina.  _

_ I have not the words in English, nor Spanish, nor Italian, nor Latin, for you, but I will never cease searching for them. _

_ Tuyo, por toda la eternidad, _

_ Gomez _


	8. Chapter 4

“Lurch!” you yell from your bedroom, pacing frantically back and forth. “Lurch, where is my  _ suit _ !” You are so impassioned that you forget the existence of his bell, and its pull-rope. Nevertheless, Lurch materializes in the doorway. 

“You...rang…?” he groans, and you pause a second in confusion.

“Not technically.” You run your hands through your hair and grab the remnants of your last cigar from your nightstand, gesticulating with it as if it will help you express yourself. “My suit, my best suit, where is it! I’m getting  _ engaged  _ tonight!”

Lurch groans half-heartedly. You knew he would approve, but now is not the time for him to be offering congratulations, and you are about to say so when he presents you with your best suit, which he had apparently been holding behind his back.

It is a deep purple, velvet tailcoat, trimmed with gold, and it is the only jacket you own that goes perfectly with your favorite cane. The cane is purple, the sword within it gold. It is best, in your opinion, to be matching in all walks of life, violent or otherwise. “Thank you, Lurch,” you mumble, placing the cigar in your mouth so you can take it from him, already distracted once again.

You throw the jacket onto your bed and resume your furious pacing, not even noticing Lurch leaving and being replaced at your door frame with Fester, who is, as promised, wearing his best robe. “Gomez! What are you doing! You told me we would be leaving in an hour!”

Immediately, you pivot to face him, throwing your hands into the air. “What if they hate me! What if I’ve imagined the whole thing! What if Morticia’s been kidnaped and locked away in some unsavory tower, never to escape?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gomez, they could never hate you - you’re an Addams! Those other things, though...well, they certainly sound plausible. Maybe we should just give the whole thing up and stay home for some nice, cold pickled octopus.”

You stare at him. He stares back. You continue staring. “What!” he asks eventually, throwing his hands up. “Just a suggestion! I swear, everyone’s getting touchy around here. Even Lurch seemed annoyed when I woke him up this morning. Oh, well, I guess I can’t convince you. Hurry up, is all I’m saying.” He leaves, then, and it takes all your self control to stop yourself from resuming your pacing. Thankfully, Morticia has taken great pleasure in training your self control, these past few nights.

Just thinking of her is almost enough to make you fall to your knees under the weight of your emotion.

But you can’t! You can’t! You must prepare! In an explosion of activity, you change into your formal attire, throwing the jacket Lurch had brought you over your shoulders with almost reckless abandon. You strap your favorite rapier to your waist before realizing that you already have a sword, within your cane, and, besides, it doesn’t match, and, besides, it’s probably impolite to show up to a banquet looking like you plan to impale someone (besides your soon-to-be-fiancé, that is).

Unless the rest of Morticia’s family is like Morticia. Which they probably aren’t. They have that beautiful home, of course, but her  _ sister.  _ If Ophelia is any indication, her family is not the type to be impressed by a sword. Strange people.

You make your way over the clothes strewn across the floor, and to the mirror, leaning in close to check your moustache. Maybe you should take it off. Do you want Morticia’s family thinking you’re a man? Will they be more likely to approve? Will it matter? And Morticia has mentioned, multiple times, that she likes it. And it’s important to you, or, at least, important enough that you haven’t left the house without it in ten years. So that’s that.

You give yourself one last glance in the mirror, admiring yourself like you always do, but also looking for any flaws, anything that might reflect poorly on yourself and your family name. There’s something...something missing… “Ah!” you exclaim, out loud. Your cravat! How could you have been so foolish?

As you run out of your room, you bend over and grab your best black one from the floor, where you had thrown it in a fit of passion while looking for your suit. You tie it with well practiced fingers as you take the stairs two at a time, making it down two flights in only the time it takes Fester to yell for you twice. Fashion is no excuse for lateness, after all.

You come to a breathless stop at the base of the stairs, where Fester and Lurch wait for you. Lurch isn’t coming, of course - he is shy, and doesn’t like meeting new people - but he will drive you and Fester to the Frump mansion. 

“I’m here!” you announce, needlessly. Lurch groans and Fester adjusts his toupee. You can’t imagine why he is wearing one; his baldness is magnificent, a sign of Addams history. But it is not your place to question. The carriage is waiting for you and, more importantly, so is Morticia. You pat your breast pocket, making sure you have the ring, and find a cigar instead, which you place in its accustomed place in your mouth. A search of the inside pockets of your jacket produce similar results, and of the breast pocket of your shirt, and of the first three pockets of your pants, and you are just getting panicked when you find it, tucked safely away. 

You have it. You’re ready. Or, at least, as ready as you’ll ever be.

The five minute carriage ride takes place in tense silence. 

When you arrive, Fester exits first, jumping gracefully to the ground and throwing up clouds of dust. The mansion is magnificent, spires extending up into the sky, windows broken in. You are not afraid, never afraid, but if you were pushed, you would consider admitting to being nervous. Oh, hell. 

Lurch has come around and opened your door, holding it open like the superb butler he’s always been, and you have no choice but to step out, into the sun. If you had worn your top hat, it would have offered some protection, but you had opted to meticulously style your hair instead. You are not yet sure if you will regret it. 

Barely cognizant of what you’re doing, you walk up the path to the door, passing through the iron gate, more aware of the sound of your footfalls than you have ever been. Fester is behind you, at your right shoulder, and you have never been more grateful for his support. 

The door, when you arrive at it, feels taller than it had a few days before. It is ominous, and looming, and you begin to relax. You know Morticia. You love Morticia. What could possibly go wrong?

As you come to that conclusion, the door swings open before you can knock, and you are greeted with the sight of Ophelia Frump. Her hair is braided, and her flowers seem to have bloomed more since you last saw her. You are barely able to avoid a sneeze.

“Oh, Mr. Addams, I’m so glad to see you! Perhaps now Morticia will leave me alone about this marriage business. And who’s this … handsome… fellow?”

     “Good evening, Ms. Frump. Allow me to present my older brother, Fester Addams.” You step to the side so that she can get a full view of him. 

“Wonderful to meet you, Fester!” She extends her hand to him, clearly intending that he kiss it, and he takes it. As he bends over to kiss her hand, as propriety requires, she  _ pulls _ , too quickly for you to process, and suddenly he is lying flat on his back, six feet down the hallway. “Did you see that, Mr. Addams?” she asks excitedly, as if you could have possibly missed it. “That’s almost my record!”

“Now, Ophelia, that will be quite enough.” Morticia has appeared behind her sister so quietly that you almost missed it. “Come in, my love. Ophelia, help dear Fester off the floor.” In an aside to you, as if Ophelia isn’t standing right there, she adds, “She gets so excited, poor dear. Isn’t aware of her own strength. Mam á has tried to get her to stop judo-flipping everyone as soon as she meets them, but what can you do? The heart wants what it wants.” 

With that, she extends her arm to you, and you take it automatically, allowing her to pull you indoors and out of the sun. The door crashes shut as soon as you pass through it, and you nod approvingly. An excellent model - Lurch would approve. And, to be honest, you’re a little bit jealous.

Ahead of you, Ophelia is helping Fester off the floor, a process that appears to be more difficult than it needs to be. But you’re not complaining. It gives you an excuse to look at Morticia.

“What are you staring at?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know. She knows full well how enamored you are with her, and you are glad she knows it. You never want her to be in doubt.

“You, querida,” you respond, and she takes a step closer, is just about to reply when Fester’s voice echoes through the hall.

“What time is dinner? I’m starving!” His inquiry appears to be directed at Ophelia, but Morticia glides forward anyway, somehow managing to remain holding your arm while also walking as if she doesn’t need to take actual steps. She has returned to her tight skirt for tonight, you notice, and the observation brings a smile to your lips. 

“Drinks first, of course, darling,” she says to Fester from behind him and Ophelia - the hallway is not wide enough for four to walk abreast. “I have to introduce you to the family.”

“You mean there are more of them?” Fester asks, looking balefully at Ophelia, and, as much as you adore Morticia, you have a hard time not agreeing with him. 

“Why, of course,” Morticia says, and you’re sure you’re the only one who notices the smile creeping around the corner of her mouth. She is barely paying attention to Fester, but rather looking at you, enjoying your discomfort. This is her domain, and you are more than happy to concede it to her.

“Shall we adjourn, then?” you ask.

“Oui,” Morticia assents, and you press your lips against the back of her hand, unable to control yourself.

\----

When next you are fully aware, and can no longer taste her glorious blend of softness and decay, you are seated next to her on a rock solid, grey chaise lounge. You are holding her hand between both of yours, and you notice that before you notice Fester in a chair beside you, or Ophelia in a chair beside him, or, across from you, two old women, an old man, and a ball of hair that is roughly the height of an eight year old child.

“Itt, old man!” you exclaim, and you would have gotten up and hugged him, if it hadn’t meant letting go of Morticia. “You’re related?” you ask, twisting slightly to direct the question to Morticia.

“By marriage,” she responds. “But you must meet the rest of the family. Or, at least, those who could come, on such short notice.”

“Of course, of course! It would be an honor.”

“I’m Mrs. Frump, Morticia and Ophelia’s mother. You can call me Mrs. Frump.” This from the old woman on the left, with wiry hair and a nearly rectangular face. She looks like a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m Mr. Frump, Morticia and Ophelia’s stepfather. You can call me Charles. Or, well, anything really.” You nod politely in response to the short, old man in the middle, with the white hair in a single braid all the way down his back. You like his style.

The other old woman, on the right, says nothing, just stares. You look at her for a minute, and then look at Morticia, raising an eyebrow. “That’s Great-Aunt Scowl. She read somewhere that not speaking helped with meditation, so she’s been quiet the past few days. It’s very impressive.”

“Ah! Of course!” You have always approved of meditation, although you prefer to do it standing on your head, or hanging from a chandelier. “It is a pleasure to meet you all. I am Gomez Addams, and this is my older brother, Fester. Thank you for inviting us to your lovely home.”

Ophelia claps her hands, although you’re not sure why. Introductions over with, you glance around the room, trying to get your bearings. The walls are red, as are the cushions, but there are vases filled with white daisies on every available surface - coffee tables, on top of lamps, on either side of both doorways. Ophelia’s work, you assume, although you can’t imagine why Morticia has allowed it to continue. You have seen the way she takes care of her thorns, and it must be killing her to be forced to stare at the hideous blooms all around you.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Addams?” Mrs. Frump asks, and your attention is pulled back to the matter at hand. She is looking directly at you, so you have to assume she means you, and not your brother. Morticia’s hand tightens on yours, and you squeeze back.

“Certainly,” you respond, and Cousin Itt squeaks in agreement. Mrs. Frump claps her hands together once and a butler appears almost instantly - a short, portly man with beady eyes and not nearly enough hair. His effortless attractiveness reminds you almost of your brother, who is staring at Ophelia like she is a bird and he is a worm, waiting to be eaten.

“Yes, Mrs. Frump?” asks the butler, staring straight ahead and not making eye contact. Hmph. Maybe you should have brought Lurch along. 

“Drinks, please. For everyone.”

“Right away, Mrs. Frump.” He bows, and then vanishes. Now  _ that’s _ a useful skill! You should talk to him later, try to find out how he does it. During the entirety of this exchange, Mrs. Frump has been staring at you, and you’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or if you should be concerned.

It is hard to be anything but ecstatic with Morticia so close to you, her skin against yours, but you also have never done this before - proposed, put effort into meeting a woman’s family - and so you are not altogether sure what it is that is happening.

“So, Mr. Addams -”

“Gomez, please,” you interrupt, trying to win yourself some good grace, but she merely sniffs and continues.

“So, Gomez, my daughter says she is in love with you. Why on Earth could that possibly be?”

“What my wife means to say -” Charlie leans forward to say, but is quickly cut off.

“I know what I mean to say, Charles, thank you very much.” She leans forward, intently. Charlie sighs and crosses his legs. Ophelia laughs. Great-Aunt Scowl stares. You sit there uncomfortably, wondering if she actually expects a response.

“Well?” Mrs. Frump asks, eyebrow raised in a perfect mirror of her daughter. Somehow, you are much less attracted to the skill in this particular moment. 

You open your mouth and then close it again, trying to stall for time as you feel Morticia tense beside you. This must have been a running theme, the past few days. The truth is, you don’t know why Morticia is in love with you any more than her mother does. She is so much more incredible than you could ever deserve, and all you want is to spend the rest of your days being given the opportunity to prove that you are anywhere near worthy of her. You can’t say that, though. Instead, you say, “Because I would die for her, Mrs. Frump, without hesitation. Because I will happily spend the rest of my life doing everything in my power to take care of her and keep her safe and fulfill her every need and desire. And because I have an exquisite fashion sense.” The last sentence comes out, unbidden - your ego is as strong as ever, it appears. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to put off by it, simply leaning back once again and sniffing once more. “I see.”

She looks just about ready to ask another question, when the butler reappears, directly in the center of the room, with no warning. He has with him a tray, and on the tray are eight cocktail glasses, filled with what appears to be a red wine. There is something small and grey swimming in each of them, which is almost enough to make up for the disappointment of there being no smoke in sight. As he distributes them, one by one, there is an intense but awkward silence, in which you do everything you can to avoid looking Mrs. Frump directly in the eyes. You’re not afraid of her, obviously. Never afraid. You simply are deeply aware of the importance of family, and you would never dream of making Morticia choose between hers and you. How could you possibly dream that, in that scenario, you would be the choice she would make?

The butler hands you your glass, and you take it with a nod and a ‘thank you’, as Morticia, beside you, does the same. She is the last, and the butler is gone again, leaving the silence like a vacuum, desperate to be filled. Morticia and Mrs. Frump lean forward simultaneously, but Morticia speaks first. “ _ Mother _ , don’t you think we should talk about something else? Perhaps tell Gomez a little about our family history? I’m sure he and Fester would find that fascinating.”

You take a sip from your drink in order to give your mouth something to do that doesn’t involve any part of Morticia’s body. As it does every time you are overwhelmed by her, your body temperature rises, and Morticia looks at you and smiles, blinking one slow blink. You bite down so hard on the rim of your glass that you catch the grey thing between your teeth. You can feel it split in half.

It is all you can do to draw your attention from her and back to her mother, who has, rather pointedly, begun to speak about the Frump family past. 

“Well,  _ Gomez _ ,” she accentuates your name in a way that tells of nothing good to come. “Of course you know that your mother and I are old friends from high school?” 

You had not known that. There was no way you could have known that. Your mother had died ten years ago, when you were fifteen, and, when you were fifteen, you had had very little interest in her ‘old friends’ from school. A polite nod is all you can muster, as you take another sip from your glass.

“Before that, our mothers were friends, and our mother’s mothers, and on and back, you know how it goes.” 

You don’t know where this is going, but wherever it is, you don’t like it. Morticia, though, is clutching your hands like a lifeline, and, when you turn to look at her, her teeth are clenched. You like it even less.

“We had always hoped for a union between our families, but both lines kept having daughters, which made for some serious difficulties regarding legally binding marriage. Which was essential, of course.”

“Of course,” you echo, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. Does she not know that you aren’t a man? Or is it simply that you disguise yourself well enough that a marriage could be possible? And, if she had been hoping for something like this for so long, why does she seem so...disgusted by the whole thing?

“Well, your mother and I promised our children to each other, in marriage, regardless of any difficulties. It was originally going to be the firstborns, as is customary, you know, but…”

She trails off, somehow filling even the silence with accusation. You have no idea how to respond, but from the glare that Morticia shoots towards Ophelia, you think you can guess where this is going. The last time you had hoped to be wrong was never, but gods above, are you hoping you are now.

“Oh, go on, finish the story!” Ophelia exclaims, seemingly unaware of the tension in the room and the fact that her sister could probably currently kill her through eye contact alone. Or maybe she is fully aware, and is enjoying it. It’s almost impossible to tell by looking at her, and she  _ is _ related to Morticia…

Ophelia’s demand seems to be what Mrs. Frump was waiting for, and she continues. “Fester was born so early, nearly seven years before my Ophelia - it just seemed too much of a gap. But then, of course, you were born, just three weeks after Ophelia, and it was almost like a sign! How could we argue with nature?”

You had just taken another sip of your drink when she gets to the end, and you cough, spitting it out and back into the glass. It takes a few blinks and a shake of your head before you are capable of asking, “ _ What? _ ”

“You and Ophelia were promised to each other from the day you were born.”


End file.
